So just to take away the taste of chewed wasp, here's a collage and some Rilke . No one does autumn better than Rainer-Maria.
These leaves are like the last green
in the paint pots - dried up, dull and rough,
behind the flowered umbels whose blue
is not their own, but mirrored from afar.
They reflect it tear-stained, vaguely
as if deep down they hoped to lose it;
and as with old blue writing paper
there's yellow in them, violet and grey;
Washed out as on a child's pinafore,
things that are finished with, no longer worn:
the way one feels a small life's brevity.
But suddenly emotion seems to flare
in one of the umbels, and one sees
a moving blue as it takes joy in green.
(From New Poems, 1907, trans. Snow. In German you can find it here.
I feel the italics are a bit of pedantic overkill, but if I don't use them someone will inevitably skip read and think I wrote it. As if. In my dreams.)